The Tale of the Last Man Standing
by Ofdensocks
Summary: Semi-AU. What if Charles Foster Ofdensen was the last survivor of the Seige of Mordhaus? Hit me up with some feedback, y'all. This is my first chaptered Metalocalypse 'fic and I wanna know how I'm doing.
1. Verse 1: A Tragedy

Once upon a time, there was a great band with a grave destiny. They wielded well the power of Rock, they sung songs of great power and brutality, and the Metal was pleased. But among their millions of admirers, there were those who hated them. These people hated the band so much, they led a siege upon the band's very home. Many lives were lost, but by sheer courage and fortitude, the band survived. Yet, among the dead bodies and burning ruins, they were horrified to discover that their brave, devoted manager lay horribly wounded, perhaps mortally, having sacrificed himself in an attempt to keep his beloved band alive.

This is not that story.

----

SQUORCH.

Perhaps the first clue that things weren't as they should be was the way the sound seemed so... loud. It really wasn't. Despite the blow taking a lot of force, knife in hand or not, the sound of an armed fist slamming halfway into... literally into... a human abdomen shouldn't be heard all that clearly. Especially with everything else that should've been going on around them.

Charles wasn't thinking of this too hard at the time, though. He concentrated instead on driving his fist upwards. It gave him a lot of personal satisfaction- not only neutralizing this particular threat but the fact he was doing so with a knife that most certainly had been meant for him.

The towering masked assassin choked out something. Probably a curse on him and all he loved. 'A plague on both ye houses', that sort of thing. He couldn't tell, because all that came out was a gurgle and a flow of blood from the mouth. It also flowed down the manager's arm. That's enough. He would be dead soon. Charles stepped back, removing his fist and the knife clenched in it.

SCHLORP.

The assassin groaned, and Charles watched stonefaced as his rival hit the dirt at his feet. That was that.

"...should've left this one alone, friend."

He wiped his blood-slick hand on the leg of his pants. The stain wouldn't come out, but he'd need a new suit anyway.

"...boys? It should be safe now."

He hadn't seen any other retreating Revengencers. If the flames hadn't gotten them, the Kloketeers certainly had.

The flames. Oh, dear Lord, this was bad. It was still burning, and would probably burn for a long time. A new home would be needed. Everything they owned would probably need replacing. Yet, anything you can walk away from, as they say.

He walked through the ash fields. He heard his footsteps, the crackle of flame. Every so often, a single moan of pain followed by no others. It was so quiet. It was making him nervous.

"...guys? Hey, where are you?"

No response. Not from his boys, nor from any other soul. He felt himself move faster, instinctively breaking into a sprint. Sparks of panic began to explode in his head like firecrackers. He only vaguely noted the stark amount of bodies laying around him, and that whiff of notice only played the orchestra of terror in him to a richer crescendo.

He almost tripped over the fat man. He lay a couple feet from a wheelchair, a shotgun on the ground about a yard in front of him. Something about the grotesque person. From the looks of it, he'd been beaten to death.

Gruesome indeed, but it wasn't what sent the terrorchestra's symphony roaring out of him. That lay about twenty feet away.

The drummer was laying facedown, his dreadlocks snaking out around his head like a Gorgon's ruby tresses. The large pool of blood that grew slowly from beneath him met the one seeping from beneath the man next to him- the golden-haired guitarist. One pale arm reached for his bandmate in vain, sapphire eyes were open but unseeing, full of fear. Not of dying, but dying alone.

The Swede had feared loneliness. It had been his most guarded secret.

The scream ripped from him harshly, flying into the air behind him like a tattered black flag in a windstorm as he more or less threw himself to the ground. The word NO burst from his lips like machine gun fire, over and over. He shook them though he knew it would do no good. He called them by their names, but they could no longer hear him.

Pickles and Skwisgaar were dead, each with a shotgun wound in their chest. The picture on the ground was painted clearly- the fat man had killed them, and a Kloketeer or two, too late, had killed the fat man.

He needed to find the others.

Charles squeezed the hands of his poor dead boys, tears spilling uncontrollably from his brown eyes.

"...i... i'll be back..."

He gently closed Skwisgaar's eyes and set off running to the heat of the burning fortress. Please. Please don't be...

------------

The ballroom was the genesis of the fire. It had since spread elsewhere, leaving smoldering ruins and ash behind. It's only through not being able to breathe otherwise that Charles bothers to wind his red necktie around his nose and mouth, making a makeshift air filter.

The ceiling by the door had collapsed. An arm protrudes from beneath, clutching a dagger. He'd tried to cut through, a fighter to the end. It was a sad scene on its own. And then Charles noticed that the dagger...

He tugged and strained with all his might. He was fueled by adrenaline and panic, and it was due to this that the manager managed to drag the chunk of ceiling off the poor people crushed under it.

The dagger wielder had indeed tried to hack a chunk of the fallen ceiling off of himself. But with his other arm, he'd been struggling to bear as much of the load as possible. There was a woman under him. He'd been trying to keep her alive.

She'd been kind to him. That's all he'd ever wanted. She'd called him a hero, a real hero, and for that he'd fulfill her expectations to the bitter end. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

If anyone had escaped the ballroom inferno with their lives, they'd have William Murderface to thank. But even so, he hadn't quite been able to save the person he'd wanted to the most.

Charles turned white, dropping the slab of ceiling with a great thud. Oh, no. Nonono, not you too. I'm sorry, William. I'm so so sorry.

From the looks of things this couldn't have been too long ago. He'd been mentally patting himself on the back for brutally dispatching another person while William had been in here, fighting not only for his life, but the woman's and the other people trapped under the rubble. He had lost.

It was nauseatingly unfair.

"...I'm so sorry."

Gingerly, he steps across the room. He has to get out of here. There has to still be hope. And this place was hot as hell.

There were less people lying crushed, burned, slain, or asphyxiated as he walked... all had been panicking, scrambling to get out. some had seemingly trampled others in the effort to save themselves. The far end of the room was deserted, save a few skeletons, some headless.

One, a charred form that Charles' anatomy knowledge told him had once been a young male, had a beam laying across his back. The poor fellow had collapsed here early on, it seemed. The melted remains of a plastic party cup were fused to one burned hand. He'd been drunk, probably, maybe even passed out as the room burned down around him.

...please stop. no, it can't be. I won't accept it. Don't look. You don't need to look. You don't want to look.

He lifts the beam. A black, ashen lump of burned fabric and stuffing is jostled loose, its melted button eyes staring up at the manager accusingly, as if blaming him for the demise of his young owner.

Don't say it. Don't even think it...

"...deddy...?"

Toki. Oh, little Toki... I should have... I should have...

A sob jagging in his throat, Charles ran blindly. Nathan. He had to find Nathan. He couldn't be... he couldn't have lost them all. There had to be at least...

His foot hit an exposed stone as he ran, and he fell forward, hitting the ash strewn ground hard. He jarred himself painfully, and lay there for a moment. He just tripped, but it seemed to hurt more than it should. A breath slowly rattles out from between his lips, and he opens his eyes.

He's staring into emerald green ones. There is still a spark in them. It's fading, but it's there.

"...of...den...sen...?"

"Nathan."

Charles sits up fast- maybe too fast, as he's left dizzy. But... he's still, he's still...

The singer is laying in a terrible position, as if he'd fallen from a great height. His limbs are dislocated, if not outright broken, his back is twisted in an ungodly manner, and his neck... it was angled completely wrong. His entire body was spasming, and it doesn't take long to see why- his lower torso bears an awful burn, but not from this or any fire. It's electrical.

Charles glances at the roof. He thinks he can see someone up there, just for a moment, before the person is consumed by fire.

"Nathan... please don't..."

"I'm... I'm s... I'm scared... an'... c... cold..."

"..."

It takes an almost Herculean effort on the manager's part, but he manages to put his own torrent of grief aside for a moment. There's no use begging Nathan not to die- his wounds were too severe, and even if he did live, he would never move again.

Gently, he holds onto one of the vocalist's massive hands. He hopes Nathan can feel it, and if not, he hoped that just his being there was a comfort.

"...it's alright. Don't be afraid. It's... it's all going to be fine.."

He'd never felt less guilty about telling an outright lie.

"Then don't... d-don't look so... so sad.. h-hey ...ro...bot... you're... leak... in'..."

A shuddering breath exhaled from the singer's lungs. No others followed.

Nathan died, and Charles' trademark restraint went with it. One choke snowballed into a vicious, heaving torrent of sobbing, screaming, swearing, shaking. He wept so hard his nose bled. He was an absolute mess, so much so that no one he knew would have recognized him or even thought that the hysterical raver was the same professional, guarded person they knew.

He could not care less. His boys were gone. He was the only one left. He couldn't care less about anything.

Finally, after a long time, Charles collapsed from utter exhaustion, totally spent and feeling lower and more despondent than he ever had in his life. Perhaps he'd lay there forever, not moving or speaking, until he was just another corpse in the corpse-field. He certainly deserved it- why should a protector outlive those he tries to protect?

His desolate inner rhetoric was answered by a very outer, smooth, and oddly accented voice, the kind that compels one to listen to it.

"Because sometimes a stranger comes along who can give him what he most desires..."


	2. Verse 2: A Funeral

"...who's there?"

Charles sat up and was to his feet quickly, fists clenched, stance ready. Everything he did seemed so automatic, as if his warrior's body was going to defend itself whether the rest of him wanted it to or not.

He couldn't see anyone alive. The source of the voice seemed to vanish on the wind with the sound.

Suddenly uncomfortable, the CFO dragged himself towards the ruins of Mordhaus, seeking some sort of shelter. The brief burst of adrenaline from before burned out quickly, leaving him impossibly weary, the grief settling on his shoulders like a cold, terribly heavy weight.

Real grief isn't something you know well if you live in a metal palace with five rock gods. You can feel sad and worse at that horrible thing you did once long ago, and feel somewhat melancholy when your better soldiers are lost. You can even feel disgusted with yourself in the middle of the night, imagining yourself drenched up to the elbows in blood. But real grief... that's different. Charles felt almost like he'd been eviscerated and lived somehow, then was filled with pieces of lead and sewn back up, leaving him walking around cold and hollow and heavy.

He did not look around him while passing through the ballroom. He couldn't bear to see Toki and Murderface's bodies again, not now. He makes his way to the rec room- part of the ceiling's already collapsed, the tv fallen from its hooks, the whole place blackened and burnt. The smell is acrid, awful, but it doesn't look like any more of it will fall in. There's a couch in the far corner, scorched and black but thankfully more substantial than a charred frame and half melted springs. He curled up on this, and with a long exhalation, closed his eyes and went to sleep.

_It's a murky place, filled with smoke. It's dark as pitch, and the wind is chill._

"...ofdensen..."

Someone is calling him. The voice is so familiar- he goes to follow it and falls, down, down into a hidden chasm, atop a pile of bones. They clutch at his jacket, scrape bony fingers against his skin. The more he struggles, the more they grasp. Skeletal eye sockets peer at him, still wearing threads of hair- flame red, jet black, golden blonde, silky brunette, bushy brown. Their voices are raspy in their throats.

"...ofdensens..."  
"...charlie..."  
"...ofdenschen..."  
"...mr. ofdensens..."

"Boys... what do you want from me? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I let you die! I know I was supposed to protect you..."

The dead band's bones rattle, and they wind around him like an ivory cage. Nathan's skull hisses in his ear.

"...ofdensen, wake up..."

He sat up sharply, cold sweat drenching his face. He looks around, unconsciously swatting bony fingers away.

A dream. What did he expect?

The morning's light is shining through the hole in the ceiling. The sky is still a haze of smoke. Charles gets up, dusts the soot off his suit. Still shaken from the nightmare, he began to walk through the ruins, across the body-littered ground. He needed to do something. He needed to keep himself occupied somehow or he would surely go insane.

Part of him remarks that a sane man wouldn't have spent the night in an ashen wreck surrounded by dead bodies. Honestly, though, where else was he supposed to go? His home was here, as it had been for a very long time. He couldn't bear to leave it, not even in its ruined state. Not yet.

He heads to what's left of the storage room. He hopes what he wants is still useable.

It somehow made him feel a little bit better. Less hollow. Maybe because he was giving something back, the sweat of his brow doing something to lessen the burden of his failure. Maybe it was a temporary release and as soon as he was finished he would feel just as empty and cold as before, but... it had to be done regardless of any penance it served. The carrion-birds would come soon, and he would not see the only five people in the world he had cared for eaten eyeball-first by the cawing, wretched creatures.

Each hole is six feet deep. One is a lot larger than the others in height and width, though each one is of varying sizes. He climbed out of this last, biggest hole and sat on the edge, surveying his work. Like most work he did, it was very good, without any visible imperfection.

He wished he had proper coffins. But there wasn't time now.

With no small amount of sadness, Charles gently began to place his boys in the graves he had just dug. Makeshift headstones carved from pieces of Mordhaus itself stood at each one, bearing their names and dates of birth, as well as dates of death- all identical. Sorrow washed over him as he filled them in. This was so... final. Doing this was almost admitting to himself that it was all over, there was no hope. He would never see them again.

"I'm sorry."

It felt like the thousandth time he'd said he was sorry. But it didn't feel like he'd said so enough, even so.

"You were... my family."

The only real one he'd ever had.

"I'm sorry if I was hard on you. I just... I wanted to do right by all of you. I always did the best that I could. I hope you know that. I hope you... I hope..."

He fell to one knee, one hand supporting himself by leaning on the pole of the shovel, head bowed. His tears rained upon the ground. He cursed himself silently for such weakness, even though no one else was around to see him weep.

"...I hope you knew... how much I... I cared about you all. How much I... oh, God, I miss you already. You don't... if only you knew what I'd give..."

"What _would_ you give, Charles Foster Ofdensen?"

It was the same voice as before. He's to his feet, streaking his sleeve across his face to deny the interloper a view of what he'd vowed no one else would ever see.

He turns sharply.

"Who the hell are you?"

The very large old man smiles down at him, his silver hair gently waving in the breeze.

"I'm the man who will grant you your dearest desire."

(to be continued)


	3. Verse 3: A Proposition

Charles eyed the interloper for a long time. Or maybe it wasn't. With the silence and the practically electric tension in the air, it seemed like a long time.

He was huge, seven feet if he was an inch. His hair was long and silver and his face was lined with ancient wisdom, his beard neatly kempt. The eyes were cold flames. Despite his immense stature, he almost seemed to float, though the CFO knew this to be ridiculous.

He was more than what he seemed. Charles knew for certain that much.

He asked again. For some reason, his voice seemed to shrivel in the back of his throat.

"What do you want?"

"I already told you. I want to give you what you most desire, Charles Foster Ofdensen."

His voice was deep and somewhat rough, and had almost a slow and deliberate pacing. There was something commanding in it too, something that, like the first time he'd heard it, demanded attentiveness from the listener.

It made sense then. Charles looks the stranger in the eye, firmly.

"I know who you are."

"Do you, now."

The stranger's voice took on a flicker of amusement. Charles himself remained rock-steady, cool and serious, almost as if he was dealing with a business proposal.

"I do. You're the devil."

A silvery brow is quirked.

"The devil? I? And what, Charles Foster Ofdensen, brings you to that conclusion?"

"You know my name before I even said it. You come to me here, in my darkest hour, and offer me what I desperately want- we both know what that is, by the way- very likely at a price that under normal circumstances I wouldn't even consider."

"The devil. Frankly, I am rather insulted. I am nothing of the kind. What I AM is far beyond mortal comprehension, even a mortal as clever as you. If I told you my true name, your mortal mind would likely destroy itself with the mere effort of trying to fathom it. You may call me Selactia. Mr. Selactia."

"Selactia, then. If you aren't the devil, then what do you want with me? If you're as powerful a being as you say, what would you care? What concern would me getting my boys back be to you?"

Charles folds his arms. This was all really quite confusing, but he isn't about to say so aloud.

"It's alright to be confused. You're only human."

The smug smile on Selactia's face told the CFO that yes, he could indeed read his thoughts.

"To start, though... they aren't YOUR boys. They're MINE. And there's no sense getting angry, it's the truth. Though I must thank you for taking such good care of them... up to this point, anyway. As humans go, you're quite remarkable."

"..."

Charles quivered in anger. Possessive as it may have been, he was not going to let someone else lay claim to what was his.

"Furthemore, there is something you need to know. If you want me to resurrect Dethklok, I can do this. It will cost you, but I can do this. But should you choose to, you should know that you are bringing about the end of the world as you know it. This..."

He makes a sweeping gesture across the corpse-strewn wasteland.

"...is but a taste of the fate that awaits humankind, a fate that will be brought forth by Dethklok. All of man will despair, and none more than you. Do you still want me to bring them back to life, Charles Foster Ofdensen, knowing all that?"

It only caused the manager to pause for one moment.

"...yes."

"Then what will you give me? I have no need for things material, and your money means absolutely nothing to me."

"...then I will give you my life. My life for theirs."

"So quickly you offer such a thing to me! Do you really consider your life not being worth living without them? Quite melodramatic, especially for someone so sensible."

Charles folds his arms. He could very well be negotiating a promotion deal.

"My reasons are my own, and that's my offer. Bring them back, and then strike me down. In that order- I would like to have a few moments with them first. That is the price I'll pay. Are you satisfied, Mr. Selactia?"

Selactia seemed a bit taken aback. No mortal at least partially aware of his true nature had ever spoken to him in such a manner. He chuckled, though- it was a bit refreshing, and he somewhat admired the manager's spirit, even after it had been all but broken.

"I am. Come here, then. There's something I need to be sure of first."

He moves forward, his stride even, and places his hand on Charles' forehead. Immediately, the manager has the strangest feeling. It was nice at first, calming, as if he's sunk into a steaming bath, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth without any sight or sound penetrating, and for a moment he forgot completely what was going on. And then, he felt a sharp jolt, and heard a whispering in a tounge he didn't understand... and something in him began whispering back. And though he didn't know the words, he realized to his horror that everything he'd ever kept hidden was being revealed. Everything he had seen and done and thought, things about himself he'd never even considered telling another living soul. He wanted to stop it, tear it away, tear it back, but he didn't know how.

When he was finally released, he could not look the being in the face. He felt naked, violated... the word 'rape' kept coming to mind, though nothing of the sort had happened. The other only chuckled.

"I have spoken to your soul, Charles Foster Ofdensen. It has told me much of you. You are a killer, ruthless to the core and exceedingly adept, and yet you abandoned your nature. You hid yourself away behind honor and duty, your true self only emerging in hints and spurts. And it is because of this barrier of nobility that I cannot help you. Not yet."

Selactia knelt, and whispered into Charles' ear.

"Rid yourself of it. Tear down your facade, this disguise you have of being a decent individual. I will return to you in seven days. If your barrier of nobility is gone and you stand before me in your true, bloody skin, then I will make the deal with you."

The CFO trembles.

"How do I..."

"You're a clever little thing. Figure it out on your own. Seven days. I shall return."

And, with a wicked smile, Selactia vanished- not in a plume of fire, but a shade of white mist.

_...now what_

Charles turned from where the other once stood, and looked upon the five graves.

_do what must be done, as you always have._

He strode once more to the ruins, and paused at a strange whimpering sound and the feel of something brushing against his leg. He glanced down.

A pup. A little yard wolf. Perhaps it had been left behind, or perhaps its mother had died to save it.

The noble thing to do would be to take it in. Scavenge the kitchen, see if there was anything left in the refrigerators or the pantry. Eat what you can, share with the pup, and release him once he's strong enough to survive.

That would be the noble thing to do.

_...this is what I give_

Without hesitating further, Charles raised his foot and brought it down as hard as he could.


	4. Verse 4: A Monster

The young man felt like he'd walked onto another planet. It was so quiet here. No sound of human voice or movement, just the rustle, caw, and growl of animals come to feed on the dead.

The place looked like death, and smelled like death, and if Sam didn't know any better he'd think he wandered into Hell, or somebody's nightmare, or something. It was all too awful to be real. The bodies... the scorched earth, and the burnt-out hulk of what was once some grand palace of metal... he knew he'd have bad dreams of this place for a long time.

Sam looked again at his notes- investigate Mordland, find what happened to the people who go to pay their respects. Many had come since the night of the fire. Very few had come back, and the ones who had were too traumatized to speak of what they'd escaped from. People were believing the old stomping grounds of the world's most famous band were haunted, cursed. Honestly it wasn't the job that Sam would have taken, but freelance reporters take what they can get.

He hoped he'd get out of this alive.

Sighing, he suddenly stopped and snapped a few pictures. This was curious. There was a small assemblage of bodies here that looked much fresher than most, and each was mostly unharmed- killed, seemingly, by a single bullet shot through a vital place with incredible precision. As odd as that alone was, they seem to have been dragged from where they'd fallen. Another look told a possible reason why- they'd fallen on what seemed to be five graves.

Sam blinked in recognition. The names on the homemade headstones... these were the graves of Dethklok. Someone here had buried them. But was that person alive?

"...hello...?"

_Dumb move, Finch. Real dumb. Way to call attention to yourseOH SHIT._

A bullet rips through his baggy jacket, grazing his arm and splashing his sleeve with blood. Looking up, panting, he catches the tiniest flash up in a high tower of the ruined building... dear lord, a scope?

_A sniper, here? But..._

_Forget it, idiot, just run!_

Long legs start pumping furiously, the skinny young reporter running for his life. He made it to cover, caught his breath. Kept running, ducked into the looming ruins.

A regular person would probably just leave, and Sam was sorely tempted to. But he was also a very curious young man, and maybe if he could unravel the mystery of who was killing visitors to Mordland and why... well, he'd have one gem of a story on his hands, one any paper'd pay really good money for an exclusive scoop on. Now, if he could just make it to that tower...

...check that, if he could just make it to that tower alive...  
--------

That was stupid. It was an easy shot, the fool had been certainly drawing attention to himself. But he'd gotten away... and worse, was now treading in his inner sanctum, threatening to find him up here.

Perhaps it'd be for the better. He hadn't seen a live human face up close in days. Oh, the redheaded young man would have to DIE, unfortunately, and perhaps it'd be a bit more difficult face to face, but if shooting someone when you could see the whites of their eyes, after you'd spoken to them... if it was worse? He could go with that. The worse the better.

The blood was getting thicker on his hands. He could barely look himself in the mirror sometimes. But he did not regret. This was all for a reason.

It had been a hard trek up here- the elevators, of course, were out and the stairway had been half collapsed and half blocked with debris. He'd become very attuned, though, to navigating the perilous stair, and the climb was worth it- this place was one of the least touched by fire he'd found, there were many places to store the large cache of food he'd managed to salvage from the kitchens, and the view... the view, and therefore the range, was magnificent.

It should be. After all, it was his own office.

Sitting down, his rifle across his knees, Charles takes a deep drink from a glass of Courvoisier. He will wait on the boy. It might be an interesting diversion.

_"...hey... hey, Ofdensen... you're being a real dick, you know."_

Oh. Oh, fuck, not again. He wasn't listening. This wasn't real, it wasn't, it couldn't be. They were dead. He was going to fix that, but for now, they were dead. He'd buried them himself...

"...leave me alone... don't you understand, this is for you..."

_"...can't believing you. You're beings selfish ands... ands dumb."  
"I know we SCHAID some dumb sctuff, but we don't... we don't WANT thisch."_

Charles could almost see him... pale and broken, limbs bent and angled horribly, leaning against the doorframe. His normally luminous green eyes flat and dead. The others stand behind him- burnt, broken, bleeding from gunshot wounds, all staring at him with accusing lifeless eyes...

_"You has to stoppings this!"  
"Yeah, dood, you're stronger than this, c'mon!"_

"...please leave... stop haunting me, I told you... it's my fault it came out this way, just... just let me fix it!"

_"Ofdensen."_

The shambling corpse-Nathan drags himself forward, his flat eyes boring into Charles'.

_"Come on back to us. We're waiting for you."_

Cold, broken arms reached for the CFO, and in a blind reaction, he threw his half full brandy glass at the vengeful spirit of the vocalist.  
---------

"Aw, DUDE. Seriously."

Well, this was a twist. He slipped into the tower room half expecting to be shot, and instead found himself splashed with what smelled like very expensive Cognac. He just hoped his camera hadn't gotten wet.

That initial shock out of the way, Sam looked around the room. It appeared to be a very stately office, a bit smoke damaged in places but otherwise not bad at all, considering the state of the other rooms he'd been through. There was also a man inside.

He was probably once very put together and maybe even handsome. At the moment, though, he looks like the kind of person you'd expect to find in a tower sniping at greiving metal fans, sort of- his hair is mussed, what was once a very nice suit dirty and torn and spattered with blood. His face is weary and unshaven, his glasses a bit bent and cracked in one lens.

For the tiniest second, Sam swore he saw sorrow and fear on that face. But as soon as he thought he saw it, it was gone, replaced by the coldest look the young reporter had ever seen.

"...who are you?"

"You've walked into my parlor, boy. I ought to be the one asking the questions. If I were you, I'd be telling me who YOU are."

"Um... I'm Sam. Sam Finch. I didn't come here to make trouble, I just wanted to find out what was going on. Um, I'm a reporter."

There's a tense silence. The man behind the desk eyed Sam with all the scrutiny a leopard would his prey. The young journalist swallows hard.

"I came to, um... there's been a lot of..."

_Oh, way to be cool and professional there, Finch._

"Charles Foster Ofdensen."

"Pardon?"

"My name. You asked it, didn't you? You aren't a very good reporter if you can't even keep track of what you've asked."

"Sorry."

Geez. Despite his haggard appearance, there was something about the man that made Finch feel like he was in school and he'd come to class without his book report. Clearing his throat, he tries to get back on track.

"Mr. Ofdensen... what HAPPENED here? Everyone wants to know that, and everybody who comes to find out never comes back in one piece. There's something going on, something big..."

"There was a fire. A terrible fire. And an attack by the Revengencers. Dethklok... they died. Everyone died. Everyone but me. It was my fault- it was my job to be prepared, and I wasn't prepared enough. I shouldn't be alive."

The CFO laughed bitterly.

"Ultimo hombre, as they would say in Spanish. Last man standing. That's me. And I've only myself to blame. But that's alright. I'm going to fix it."

"Mr. Ofdensen? Unless you're one hell of a one-man contractor, I don't think there's any fixing this."

Sam sighed softly. He thinks he remembers the man's name and face now. He must have been... no, he was almost certain... he was Dethklok's manager. No wonder he was so messed up, especially if what he'd said about being the sole survivor of whatever disaster'd taken place here was true.

"Hey... why don't you come on back with me? This ain't no place for the living, man. Just... put the rifle down..."

He'd have to ask later why on earth he'd been sniping people... for all he knew, it was some sort of messed up flashback, like some war veterans got. It'd make sense. Sam just couldn't help but genuinely feel bad for the man, though, despite all logic saying that this was a horrible idea.

"Perhaps... perhaps you're right. Sam, did you say your name was? Yes. It's been ridiculous of me. Come here, boy, give me a hand."

Sam exhales. All's well that ends well, and maybe the manager'd be willing to talk to him more openly later. Crossing the floor, Sam approaches Charles, who oddly seems to be humming... was... was that a showtune?

_i'd do anything... for you, boys, anything... yes i'd do anything..._

It was like watching an animal spring. No sooner did Sam approach than he found himself gripped by the wrist and forcefully thrown toward the huge window, with no time to so much as steady himself before a brutally graceful roundhouse kick slams into his chest, sending him crashing through the smoke-tinged glass and to the ground below.

Charles watched his decent with a hard, cold, remorseless gaze, and didn't even blink when he hit the ground.

_...anything for you._

It had to be enough by now. Perhaps, perhaps not. The only way to be sure was to continue until Selactia returned.

The killings will continue until I get what I want.


	5. Verse 5: A Revelation

It was dawn on the seventh day, and the bloodstained CFO was sitting on a chunk of blackened wall surveying the last sunrise of his life.

Today, he knew, would be the day he died. The first part of his deal with the devil... well, close enough in his mind... had been fulfilled. At least, Charles hoped it had been enough. He had killed dozens of people in cold blood, one young man face to face after gaining his trust. He would be overwhelmed with remorse, if not for the fact that it all was done for a specific, precious reason.

He had killed for six days. On the seventh, he would likely be sent to Hell... hardly a thing that terrified him, as he didn't consider any incarnation of Hell could really be much worse than the burnt-out graveyard wasteland Mordland had become.

He was only sorry he couldn't fix it up better, and that his boys would be risen to such an awful place. Still, they can move on. Build anew someplace more hospitable, continue with their young lives. Get a new manager, hopefully one who would be as efficient and dedicated as he had been.

Ha. Haha.

Sliding off the wall, he walked to the five graves. He came here every day. It was like reminding himself of his purpose, what all this killing and dying was for.

"Today's the day, boys. He'll be coming soon to bring you back. And to take me down. I'm not... I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid to die."

He wasn't afraid. He wished there was something else that could be done for it, but the deal was already sealed.

He appeared in the shadows, emerging from the same white mist he'd vanished into. He laughed darkly. Charles went to him, strangely drawn like metal to a magnet.

"Let me look at you."

Selactia walks a pace around the CFO, his eyes boring into him, and the manager could tell it was not normal sight he was being inspected with. The same violated feeling as before echoes through him, though at a much less severe level. After a few moments, the entity nods grimly.

"Yes. Yes, that will do. There is nothing stopping me from helping you now. I must say, Charles Foster Ofdensen, that you wear murder with an amazing flair."

"Shut up and let's do this already."

Charles has had quite enough of mysterious entities, having his soul read like a book, and killing for the sake of killing. Enough was way too much, and he was most definitely sick of being toyed with.

"This is your last chance to change your mind."

"I'm not changing my mind. I already told you that. Just fucking do it."

"Spirited even still. Admirable. Alright, then... prepare yourself."

_"CHA-RLES!"_

That was weird. He thought he'd heard Nathan's voice... but the singer never called him by his first name, much less enunciated into two syllables like that. His imagination, just like all the others... had to be...

_"Don't you leave us, Charlie! Don't you DARE!"  
"Stoppings this! You can'ts... where are we goings to getting anothers butler like you?"_

The white light that opens up out of thin air seems real enough, though... Charles wondered if it was Selactia's doing, but judging by the other's reaction, it most certainly wasn't.

"Ignore that! It's nothing but a foolish illusion! Here, there's no more time to waste!"

Selactia holds out a hand, crackling with dark energy. The touch of oblivion, Charles somehow knew. Feeling the strange pull, the feeling of being drawn in again, he slowly begins to reach for Selactia's hand.

The light behind him pulses brighter, the voices growing more panicked.

_"Come ON! Come back here, you aschhole!"  
"Mr. Ofdensens... we's is all here, right here. You've gots to come back to us."_

"Please... please don't leave us, Ofdensen... not after all the shit we've fuckin' been through, don't leave us now. Cuz... now's when we need you most. And if any one-a you jerkoffs calls me on this I'll swear t' GOD I'll punch your faces in."

He looks. He sees his boys on the other side of the light, not rotting or dead, but simply worried. Scared, even.

Charles makes his choice, and though he hears Selactia on the other side, trying to stop him, he's already gone into the brightness, to where he knows he really should be.

-----------

It hurts. The white brightness hurts his eyes even before he's opened them, and his whole body is in pain that he didn't even realize was possible.

If this was heaven, it sure sucked. And smelled funny, like Lysol and other disinfectant and...

"...ofdensen...?"

The manager slowly, very slowly, opens his eyes.

Five extremely relieved faces look back at him, and he finds himself squeezed by a big pair of arms... which though he appreciated the sentiment does nothing for the world of hurt he's in.

He tries to speak, and his voice comes out dry and hoarse.

"...what happened...?"

"What happened? Dood, you've been in, like, a coma for like, weeks. Ever since the Revengencer doods attacked Mordhaus."

"Yeah, that maschked guy beat the everloving holy schit out of you. We didn' know if you were EVER gonna wake up."

"And... and yous almost deads justs now! The machines mades the beepings and buzzings ands we thoughts we was goings to losings you for good."

"Oh. And... yeah. The doc said it might be a good idea if we talked to you. So we've been doing that. Dumb stuff. Don't know if you even heard us."

Charles raises his fingers to his temples. There's an IV in his arm, and his entire body feels atrophied- a thought that disgusts him a bit, as he prided himself on keeping his body honed like a fine blade- and he's in a lot of pain still. But he's alive. The boys are alive.

"I... I heard you."

He looks around at them. They look tired, exhausted. They'd probably been here as long as he has, or staying nearby, for lack of anyplace else to go. But they are alive.

He is glad.

"...thank you."

Charles smiles at them. It takes them a little aback, as they've never really seen their manager laugh or smile (when he was sober, but that was a whole other kettle of fish). It's warm, though, and full of what the boys would call love, if love weren't for the most part un-metal.

He clears his throat.

"Now, would one of you fetch me the nearest available Kloketeer? I need to be brought completely up to speed and start planning on where we're going to go from here. And the five of you, go get some rest."

"You got it."

Nathan shakes his head as he leaves the room with the others. Same old robot.

----------

coda- an epilogue

----------

"Master?"

In a cavern full of mists, a man with a long russet beard approaches the much taller one sitting upon the throne. The latter man is rubbing his temples and looking thoroughly disappointed.

"So close, Vater Orlaag. A bit further and I would have had him."

"Yes... he would have been an incredibly useful resource for us. He could have moved Dethklok in just the right manner for our purposes."

"He is strong. Very strong, as humans go. I should not have expected to obtain his will on the first attempt. But I know his weak point. The time will come."

Mr. Selactia steeples his fingers together. He is nothing if not exceedingly patient.

(the end.)

---------------------

Chapter End Notes:

Well, this is it- the end of this here story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it for y'all. ^^

And here is a BONUS! 8D When I originally posted this little tale on LiveJournal, each chapter had a song bit with it, altogether serving as the story's five-track 'soundtrack'. For the benefit of you peeps, here it is in its entirety for your listening pleasure-

Verse 1: People in Planes - Last Man Standing  
Verse 2: Akira Yamaoka - Rain of Brass Petals (Three Voices Edit)  
Verse 3: Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Red Right Hand (DJ Spooky mix)  
Verse 4: Modest Mouse - Tiny Cities Made of Ashes  
Verse 5: Unwritten Law - Seeing Red

Thank you for reading! 3


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